Trust
by kasviel
Summary: Slash. Yaoi. Gay. Reese/Finch. A little off-camera story of what it takes to learn to trust again, and what the price of love is. Contains spanking.


**Author's Notes**

CBS' new show, "Person of Interest", has been one of my favorite shows of the last TV season; I watched since the pilot, and never missed an episode on any given week. It reminded me of "Batman Begins", but it had a very different premise: a professional soldier and spy that turns hero out of desperation to find his purpose in life again, and one that uses guns. There are similarities, including it being produced by a Nolan, but it diverges drastically; this is no rip-off. The action is top-notch, the characters all portrayed perfectly, especially the main characters: Jim Caviezel as John Reese and Michael Emerson as Harold Finch. I actually saw Caviezel in the Jennifer Lopez flick "Angel Eyes", and I liked him enough to think he deserved more than a Jennifer Lopez flick. Emerson, well, I've been a huge fan since his turn as Ben Linus on ABC's "Lost". I never got the chance to slash him with John Locke, but there were times when I really, really wanted to.

This time, opportunities shall not be wasted. Since midseason, I got into this mindset that Reese and Finch should be together. They have a quirky kind of chemistry on the show, platonic as it is on camera, and I could not resist making the dashing, alpha Reese into a dominant. I went through several versions of the story, and lost an entire draft due to my recent computer disasters. I was also waiting for the season to wrap to see how the story turned out, and whether getting them together was at least half-viable. For a time, I thought this story might never get written.

Nonetheless, my fangirl obsession would not let me rest until I had some semblance of a story, and so here it is. It is my usual style: the sex scenes are hardly described in this one at all, in favor of taste, and it focuses heavily on character development and the romance itself; there is the spanking theme I always use, as well. This one is a little sweet, a little sad, and it jumps around the entirety of season one as a kind of off-camera affair. It is only Alternate Universe by the fact that the Reese and Finch are gay here, and I'm pretty sure in the canon they are not (though to me it seems they could be, but that's just me). I don't spend too much time dwelling on this shift in their lives, as they're both mature adults and in the story, the attraction has been evident between them for a little while by the time the story opens. Perhaps they would never have admitted it, but the story begins with the night Carter betrayed Reese and Reese was shot: this changes the dynamic between them in the story even more than it did on the show. As for why they always appear professional on camera, well, they're working, and Finch would never let a relationship interfere with their work, and Reese is down to business one-hundred-percent when working, like any soldier/agent would be. So, I had some room to weave around the canon narrative. I'm sure my story has its plot holes, and season two will shoot more plot holes through it in the fall, but that's inevitable. The joys and liberties of fanfiction writing!

A warning to post here, though: If you have not watched the entire season one of the show, please, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. It contains SPOILERS for the season, including the shocking finale. Trust me, you do not want to spoil this show!

I hope you enjoy this little bit of fluff to bolster a kick-ass show as much as I enjoyed writing it. Something to pass the infinite wait until season two, right? Thank you so much for reading my works!

* * *

1.

Harold Finch stood staring blindly at the man in the hospital bed. At his side, someone was talking, but he could not hear a word. His light eyes peered through his glasses at the man who was supposed to be nothing more than his agent: John Reese.

"Sir? Sir!"

Finch snapped out of his daze, turning to the man beside him. It was the morgue technician that had stitched Reese up, and who was overseeing his recovery. Harold had managed to get Reese moved up to a private hospital room, and shifted enough data and money around so no one would notice.

"Are you all right?" the man asked. "You haven't left since you brought him in. I think you are in a state of shock."

"I'm fine," Finch said mechanically. "He's the one that needs your attention."

"I have done all I can for him," the not-quite-a-doctor said. "He lost a lot of blood, but he is stable. You should rest, eat something, drink"

"Can I sit in with him?"

"It isn't orthodox, but nothing about this has been orthodox, has it?" the doctor said. "Yes, go on in. But you really should"

Finch was already limping past him in his swift gait. "Thank you, doctor."

Harold came into the room, freezing the moment the door shut behind him. He had never seen John look so defenseless before, and the sight stunned him. He approached slowly, as if his very footsteps might break the wounded man. He sat on the edge of the bed, gazing with wide eyes at Reese.

"I thought Finch turned as the door opened in alarm. It was only the technician, bringing a chair in for him. He placed it beside the bed without a word, and left. Finch did not leave the bed. Before he spoke again, he took John's hand into his own hesitantly.

"I thought this would be … different," Harold admitted to the unconscious man. "I don't know what I expected that I, _I_ would be spearheading some … privatized black ops? Or funding my own personal superhero? I was desperate to do something, anything, and it made me, if not careless, thoughtless. I anticipated every angle of this thing, only to have it all fall apart the moment I met you."

Harold made a soft, amused sound. "You wanted no part of it. I went through tactic after tactic, and then you slammed me against the wall, held your arm under my throat. I was terrified—I don't know if you saw just how scared I was. I thought I might die by your hand for a second. I questioned everything I wanted, everything I planned. I thought right then and there that I was insane."

Harold squeezed John's hand more tightly. "Maybe I am. Maybe we both are. Crazy or sane, we found each other, despite it all. I found you, and then … you found me. You found a part of me that I thought I had buried when I buried my past, when I buried my love. And now I—I'm terrified Finch licked his lips, his voice cracking.-all over again."

The soft-spoken man tried to maintain his detached demeanor, but his face crumbled. He bowed his head, and tears dropped onto Reese's hand, which he clutched more tightly than ever. He was too miserable to notice that it twitched in his grip, and squeezed very lightly back. Reese's eyes flickered open just slightly. He opened his mouth, but was too weak to speak.

In a moment, Reese was too shocked to even attempt to talk. Finch was huddled over his hand, shoulders shaking, softly sobbing. He could feel his tears on his hand. _Cold, detached little Harold Finch—crying? _Reese thought as he came into coherence. _Am I hallucinating? Did they shoot me up with morphine ten times over, or what?_

"I can't lose you, Mr. Reese," Finch said hoarsely. "I—I can't. I _**can't**_. You are not just an agent anymore, not just the soldier I hired … you're … my retribution. You're my hope. And most importantly, John, you're my friend. I l"

Finch had turned his face to Reese to say the words, and they caught on his tongue when he saw John's steely blue eyes fixed on him. Finch inhaled in surprise, instantly withdrawing his hand from Reese's.

"M-Mr. Reese," he said breathlessly. "I didn't think you would be conscious for some-some time."

"Obviously."

Finch removed his tear-clouded glasses and wiped them on a cloth he took from his pocket. When he put them back on, his eyes were also dry, and his expression was back to its usual neutrality. He took a plastic water bottle from a table and opened it, helped Reese drink.

"Thank you, Harold," Reese said. His voice was still raspy, but he had that playful tone he was using more frequently to tease his boss. "Are you planning to be my nurse?"

Harold stared at his hands. "It would be the least I could do after getting you into this."

"You didn't get me into anything I wasn't willing to be in, Finch," Reese assured him. "I'm an adult, and I signed up for this. Don't blame yourself."

Finch did not look convinced.

"And don't blame Detective Carter, either."

Finch's eyes widened. "She"

"Shh, shh, shh. Harold. Listen

"She almost got you killed!" Finch exclaimed. "If you think there is any way I won't eliminate her as a threat"

"Don't do anything to her, Finch," Reese ordered. He grunted in pain, leaning his head back for a moment. "Listen. _Listen_." He reached out weakly, found Finch's hand and took it in his own. "She saved me in the end. She let us both go. That has to count for something."

"So I won't destroy her identity _entirely_, but I'm not going to"

"You're not going to do anything, Harold," Reese said. "I mean it. If I wake up and find out you've done anything to Carter"

"What?" Finch asked. "What will you do, Mr. Reese?"

Reese sighed in frustration; there was not much he could threaten in this condition. Instead of frightening Finch, he decided to tease him a little more, throw him off guard. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, "I will take you over my knees and spank the daylights out of you, Harold."

Finch's face flushed, and his jaw actually dropped half an inch. He stammered incoherently, stopped. Unable to meet Reese's gaze again, he turned and looked at his hands, frowning.

"This isn't a joke, Mr. Reese."

"Who says I'm joking?"

Finch swallowed. "I—You He sighed. "Mr. Reese, please-"

"Promise me you won't take any action against Carter, or anyone else, for that matter."

"Why is it that I hired you, yet you're always the one giving orders?"

"Because I'm the one on the field, Finch," Reese pointed out. "I have to be able to make the tactical decisions. If you can't give me that much, I can't work for you."

"You've taken charge of everything," Finch said in dismay. "The guns, the allies"

"You still have the Machine," Reese shot back. "You're holding the Ace, Finch, but you can't leave me a wild card or two?"

"Fine," Finch agreed. "I won't do anything. But we will talk about Carter later."

Reese was fading, and he looked like he was going green with pain. Nonetheless, he was able to half-warn, "Oh, we certainly will."

Finch stood over him. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Reese," he said, placating. "I promise. I promise, I won't do anything without you. Just take it easy. Rest."

"Don't think I have … much choice in the matter." Reese's eyes shut. "Thank you … Finch."

Finch smiled. He realized Reese was still holding his hand, and blushed. He set the hand down gently on Reese's chest, lingering over him for a moment. Reese seemed to be out again. Finch held out a hand, held it back again, and then finally allowed himself to sweep back some of Reese's silver-black hair.

John was fading fast, but he felt the touch. His mouth twitched up just slightly at the corners. He had known there was real, human good in Finch, and now his suspicions were confirmed. He wondered if he could just make Finch realize that simple fact.

2.

"You really have become my nurse."

After a week, Reese had regained much of himself. The technician remarked that he had never seen such a resilient man. Finch had been at his side every day, practically doting on him, and today was no different; he had changed Reese's pillows, propped his bed up, given him a tray of breakfast, and now he was folding a fresh hospital gown out for him on a chair.

Finch blushed, dropping the gown. "I, ah—Well, since finding a private one would be a security risk, I figured"

"I appreciate it, Harold. Come here."

Finch hesitated.

"Come here," Reese repeated in the commanding tone that he found always had a mysterious way of working on Finch. Surely enough, Finch came over. He patted the bed, but Finch did not sit. "What are you so afraid of, Harold?"

"Nothing."

Reese made an effort to sit up, reached out, and take Finch by the shirt. He pulled him down until he was sitting on the edge of the bed (if the very edge). Reese ran a hand up and down his arm. Finch swallowed, but did not otherwise react.

"You weren't so afraid to get close when I was unconscious," Reese said. "Hm? Remember that night? You even cried."

Finch bowed his head. "I thought you might die. I … I'm still not used to violence."

"No, you aren't used to caring," Reese told him. "You made that Machine, and before you hired me, you sat on more violence than any human mind could calculate. You watch and control who lives and who dies, even now. You are used to violence, Harold, in your remote way. What you aren't used to is being invested so totally in it. You've never had it be this real before."

Finch kept staring quietly at his hands.

"But it is real, Harold," Reese said, putting a hand on Finch's shoulder. "It's so real that it hurts. Life is like that. It has to hurt."

"Believe me, I know."

"Do you?" Reese asked. "Honestly, do you, Finch? How can I know if you do or not? Tell me."

"Mr. Reese"

"_Tell me_," Reese demanded, if gently. His grip on Finch's shoulder tightened just enough to restrain him if he tried to get up. "I almost died for your cause. I don't need you to nurse me, I need you to tell me the truth. I _need you _to _trust me_."

Finch sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Do you think I don't have my reasons for not telling you, even now?"

"What reasons?" Reese asked wearily. He reached out with his other arm, and held Finch by both shoulders. "Are you afraid of who you were, or what you've done? Or are you really just afraid that I won't care?"

Finch looked at him wearily, longingly. His face looked naked without his glasses. Perhaps noticing this, he put the black frames back on, as if they were a shield. He tried to stand, but Reese's grip held him put.

"Why are you so afraid of opening up to me, Finch?" Reese asked. "You said it yourself that night: we're friends. You almost said we were more."

"You don't know what I was going to say," Finch said softly. Reese drew him closer, and he fought it uselessly. "Mr. Reese, please."

"Call me 'John'."

"Mr."

"You called me by my given name that night."

Finch met his eyes evenly. "I did a lot of things that night."

"You did and said a lot of things that night, but for once, you didn't lie," Reese told him. "So why pretend it never happened? Why go back to the way things were?"

"Because I have to," Finch said. "This will never work if I don't. Please, Mr. Reese, nothing has changed."

"Nothing has changed?" Reese echoed incredulously. "Nothing has _changed_? I'm pretty sure _this_ He moved back the hospital gown, showing the bloodstained bandages.-wasn't here before that night."

Finch tried to look away, but Reese shook him until he looked at them. His eyes watered again, and he was swallowing successively. His mouth turned down, and he looked on the verge of breaking again.

"Don't you dare say that nothing has changed," Reese said sternly. "This isn't data you can erase or file away. This is real, Finch. Do you understand that? It's real."

"I know," Finch choked. He cleared his throat. "I know, John, I do know it's … real. But so is my life, so are my reasons. You have to trust me."

"How can I, when I don't know you at all?"

"John … "

Reese took Finch's face in his hands. He looked at the man sympathetically, but his eyes were still hurt. "Just tell me something, Harold."

"I can't."

"Tell me what you were about to say." He drew Harold's face closer to his own. "Say the words."

The cracks in Finch's neutral facade were deepening. He looked ready to break apart. His eyes met Reese's, begging with him for a reprieve. "John"

"Say it. I want to hear you say it."

With sudden forcefulness, Finch said, "No."

Reese raised his eyebrows. "There's some backbone in you, isn't there, Harold?" he mused. "How much, I wonder?"

"What does that me—mmm!"

Reese brought Finch's face directly up to his own, and kissed him. It was a mostly chaste kiss, as he didn't want to give the guarded man a heart attack. Finch resisted, but very weakly, and only for seconds. Then, he pressed his lips against Reese's, and fell less rigidly into his arms. Reese's hands lowered to Finch's neck, back to his shoulders, his touch more gentle than commanding now.

"Say it," John whispered to him after he drew back. "Say the words."

Finch searched his eyes in distress. He licked his lips, opened them to speak-

The door opened, and the two flew apart. Reese moved so suddenly that a stab of pain rippled through him. He groaned. Finch turned to the intruder, who turned out to be the technician.

"I was trying to help him," Finch lied. "He had a … pain."

The technician came to Reese's side, and Finch sidled away from the bed. He waited to make sure Reese was all right, gripping the door frame. Once he was sure he was fine, he made a fast escape. Reese watched him go, sighed. He wondered how many times Finch was going to rabbit out of feeling any emotion at all.

3.

Finch was sure to maintain his distance after the kiss. He did not know how to deal with his feelings, did not comprehend how or why Reese felt what he felt, and so he shelved all of it. Though it tore his heart apart to see Reese and think of what they could have, he stifled it. To Reese's annoyance, Finch went back to his detached professionalism as if nothing had ever happened.

Not only did he go back to it, but he threw them both back into their work. Even though Reese was wheelchair-bound, Finch informed him of a new number having come up. He moved them to the apartment building near the target, and happily went back about the business of saving lives.

Reese kept his cool, but he was severely aggravated by Finch by now. He kept telling himself to just wait until the mission was over. Just wait …

"That went remarkably well, considering the circumstances," Finch said that night when they got back up to the apartment. He looked over at Reese. "Are you going to be all right for the night, Mr. Reese? Can I get you anything?"

"Volunteering to be my nurse again, Harold?"

Unable to resist taking another jab, Finch asked, "Do you want the cushion?"

Reese's eyes glinted, and Finch winced inwardly.

"Yes, Finch," Reese surprised him by saying. "Would you bring it over to me?"

"O-okay."

Finch picked the still-packaged seat cushion up, and walked over to Reese. He was a little wary of him, but Reese was in the wheelchair, after all. He had to be tired after the exertion of earlier, too. What could he really do?

Finch reached out the cushion to Reese, who wheeled forward a little to take it. Before Finch could draw back, Reese reached out and grabbed his arm, hard. Finch pulled back, could not escape.

"What are you doing, Mr. Reese?" he asked, trying not to panic.

"Come here. Come here." Reese pulled him down so their faces were level. "Now, Harold, I think we have some things to discuss."

"What things?" Finch asked. "What have I done? We completed a mission, you're healing up, and I even made nice with your precious Detective Carter. What's the matter?"

Reese leaned forward to kiss him, but Finch turned his face. His lips met the man's cheek, which was very warm. Reese kissed him regardless, then turned his face forward by the chin.

"You can't deny it anymore, Harold, not even through working me around the clock," Reese said. "We **are** going to have this conversation, Harold." He maneuvered Finch until the man was sitting on his lap. "And we're going to have it now."

Harold had turned bright pink. He squirmed on Reese's lap, feeling ridiculous and yet aroused. "Mr. Reese, this is really not appropriate!"

Reese held him in place. "You're not going anywhere, Finch." He lifted the plastic-wrapped thing from the floor. "Do you want the cushion?"

Finch looked sullen. "You're being obstinate on purpose," he said. "It's juvenile."

"And refusing to acknowledge how you feel is mature?"

"Since when are you gay, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked. "Hm? There is absolutely no indication that you have ever had the slightest interest in men."

"All that data, and you're still surprised," Reese smiled. "Not everything can be labeled and neatly filed into cold fact, Finch. I never was interested in a man, but I am interested in you. And you are interested in me."

"We've both been alone too long." Finch fiddled with his glasses. "That's all."

"So, loneliness isn't a good reason to reach out to someone?"

"Not when it's the only reason," Finch said. He met Reese's gaze evenly. "And not when it could jeopardize everything."

"Worried about it getting awkward in the office, Finch?"

Finch stared at his hands. "We can't afford to complicate things. It's too important. All this is too important, Mr. Reese."

Reese suddenly took Finch's wrists in hand, tightly. Finch struggled in alarm, the fingers crushing his skin. The look in Reese's eyes was not unsympathetic, but it was so intense it was difficult to look into those cool light orbs.

"I lost everything because my bosses once told me what I was doing was too important to compromise," he said. "If you're going to give me that same order, I'm done."

"John"

"I'm **done**, Finch."

"You can have anyone you want, Mr. Reese … except for not me."

Reese's grip softened. "That's the thing, Finch. I don't want you to live that way, either. I couldn't stand seeing you hurt yourself the way I did."

"I don't"

"Don't tell me you don't feel the way I do."

Reese kissed him, and this time, Finch kissed him back. Fear cooled him, but the desire was still warm enough to override it. He threw his arms around Reese's neck, and the kiss deepened. Despite the pain of falling into love again, despite his terror, relief washed over Finch; he was as surprised as Reese was at his ability to feel.

It was different, this time around, for both of them. It could not replace the true loves they had both lost. Yet in a way, it was safer, easier, if only because they shared so much. It was strange to think the Machine had brought them together, some cold, mechanical thing endlessly and apathetically computing the data of life, but it had. Through Finch's need to make good of his creation, and Reese's need to find a purpose in something genuine, they had come together.

Now, they shared everything.

That thought tore Finch from Reese's increasingly passionate grasp. He pulled back. "I can't!" he burst out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I can't."

Reese held onto him. "You can, you _can_, Finch," he persisted. "You just won't."

"No, I won't, and neither will you!"

Reese frowned in surprise. "Are you threateningly me?"

"Yes!" Finch said desperately. "Mr. Reese, if I can't rely upon you to be professional, then this isn't going to work. I have given you a lot of freedom, more than I ever meant to, but you cannot do whatever you want—especially not with me. I … I can always find another jaded ex-spy with nothing in his life but a bottle, and I can always turn him the way I turned you."

A cold, dark look came over Reese's face. He knew that Finch was only reacting out of fear, lashing out like a trapped rat, but the words wounded him. He had not anticipated Finch having so much power over him, and he hated the realization. _I should have known. Love goes both ways. It's been so long that I've forgotten that. I've forgotten how that loss of control feels, when someone has that mysterious power over you._

"You aren't the only one in the world that needs a purpose, John," Finch said coldly. "Don't think you're that indispensable."

"I never thought I was," Reese said quietly. "I just thought that I meant something to you, Finch."

Finch's eyes watered, but he just shook his head. "Let me go, Mr. Reese."

Reese released him, and he climbed off his lap. He looked down at John regretfully, hating himself, hating John for making him feel this way, and feeling his heart sinking into a dark, lonely abyss.

Before he walked away, Finch felt a tug at his jacket. He turned back to John.

"Just one more thing, Harold."

Finch hesitated. "What?"

Reese smiled, and then moved with that uncanny speed of his. His arm reached around Finch's waist, and then he took hold of the man's arm for the millionth time. Finch stumbled confusedly, his struggling futile as always. Reese put him on his lap again, but this time, it was in quite a different position: in moments, Harold Finch had been taken over John's knees.

"Mr. Reese!" Finch cried in alarm. "What are you doing!"

"You can deny how you feel about me, Finch," Reese said, pinning one of Finch's arms to the small of his back and effectively trapping him. "You can insult me, you can keep your secrets, you can do whatever the hell you want. But you cannot, _**will not**_, use what I've lost and what I've felt against me."

"John, I'm sorry, but you were being—I didn't meant it, I really—You didn't give me a choice, Mr. Reese!" Finch tried to defend himself. His face was hot and bright red with the indignity of his position, and he writhed, kicked a little. "This is ludicrous. Put me down."

"I will … after."

"After what?"

Reese smiled. "After I spank the daylights out of you, Harold."

Finch did not know what to do or say. Protesting would be childish, but to allow the man to humiliate him like this would be unbearable. As he faltered, Reese unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and slid them down. To Finch's embarrassment, John then slid his boxers down with them, without a moment's hesitation.

"Please don't do this, John," Finch begged, his voice wavering. "I apologized, and we're adults. Please, can we just handle this like adults?"

"You were the one being childish," Reese said. "And now you're going to pay for it, Harold."

Finch opened his mouth to speak again, but Reese wasted no more time with words. He held his hand back, then brought the palm flat against Finch's buttocks in a fast, crisp motion. Finch jumped, uttered a small "oh" at the burst of prickly pain. Before he had time to reconcile the fact that this was actually happening, Reese had repeated the motion, several times. He kept a steady pace, striking one cheek, then the other, back and forth evenly.

"You should count yourself lucky, Harold," Reese said. "My methods of punishment are usually less gentle than this."

"You call this gentle?"

"Compared to my pounding your face in, yes."

"Why not just do that, then?" grumbled Finch. "Why not settle it like men?"

"Because you wouldn't survive it, Finch."

Finch hung his head, unable to argue that point. All he could do was hang there dumbly, and take the 'punishment'. He had always been at Reese's mercy, but the fact had not been this clear since the day Reese had slammed him into the wall. He didn't think he would die this time (no one had ever been spanked to death), and he was not frightened, but the humiliation of it was almost worse than the mortal terror.

When the sting began to nag at him enough, Finch became sullen. He was not used to being taken to task by anyone, having lead such a solitary adult life, and the reality check was annoying. He tried to calculate the best way to talk himself out of it, but his mind was not functioning with its usual clarity.

"This hurts, Mr. Reese."

"You're whining, Harold." Reese glanced at him, but could not see his face. "Haven't you ever been spanked before?"

Finch said nothing.

"Can't even answer that?" Reese asked bitterly. He struck his boss with more force. "But hey, at least a lack of an answer is better than a lie. You're improving already, _Harold_."

"What do you want from me, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked. "Do you intend to keep on spanking me until I divulge all my secrets? Why stop here? Why not tie me to the tub and water-board me? Or-or even better, electrocute me! Go ahead! I'm sure you've done it all before!"

His voice broke, and he silenced himself. Reese gave him a pitying look, but did not relent.

"I'm not going to torture you, Finch, and I'm _not_ asking you for all your secrets," Reese said. "If that had been my intention, I would have done it a long time ago. Come on. I'm not in the CIA anymore, you know that."

"Then what do you _want_ from me, Mr. Reese?"

"I-want-to-know," Reese asked slowly, punctuating each word with a spank, "what-you-were-going-to-tell-me-in-the-hospital."

Finch licked his lips, considering. His glasses finished slipping off his face before he could grab them. He stared, unfocused, at the floor beneath him. Finally, he said, "I'll tell you. I'll tell you on one condition."

Reese stopped the spanking. "You aren't exactly in a position to make demands."

Finch twisted his head to look over his shoulder at Reese. "If I tell you this, you have to promise to stop asking me who I am."

"Finch," Reese groaned.

"Promise me, John!" Finch pleaded.

"All right." John released Finch's arm. "I promise."

He gave Harold time to pull himself off his lap. Finch, dismayed but not having shed the tears in his eyes, clumsily brought his boxers and pants back up. He pressed a hand to his throbbing backside, rubbed at it briefly. He was mystified when he saw and remembered Reese's wheelchair: all that from a man unable to fully walk again yet.

"I hadn't realized it until that night," Finch said, not daring to delay the confession. "Of course, you're a very handsome man, and there's been some attraction for some time, but … I could always blame that on sexual chemistry. That night when I almost lost you, I couldn't play it off so casually. When you were … were shot Finch had difficulty speaking the words. "I wasn't thinking about your looks or your charm, I was thinking about _you_; about the kind of man you are, about all you've given me the opportunity to do. I realized that I … What I was going to say to you before you woke up was … was … "

Finch collapsed to his knees before Reese's chair. His hands gripped the man's knees, and he looked up at him with a look that made Reese almost wish he had not caused.

"I was going to tell you that I love you." Finch's mouth trembled, and he bowed his head as the tears finally fell. He drew a few shaky, gasping breaths. "You are _not_ disposable, Mr. Reese. I couldn't find another agent to hire as easily as all that. Without you, I don't think I would care if any of this went on or not."

"Don't say that, of course you would," Reese told him, rustling a hand over the man's head. "You're stronger than you think, Finch."

"I don't know what I am on my own, but I know that I'm strong with you," Finch said. "Do you know all the scenarios I had worked out in my mind before recruiting you? It could have gone wrong in thousands of ways, but it didn't. You say you don't trust me, but you have all this time, and even if it doesn't seem like it, I have trusted you—with so much more than I ever intended. I'm sorry I said those things to you, John. I'm so sorry."

He crumbled, burying his face in his arms on Reese's lap. Reese stroked his hair. "It's okay, Finch. I know you were scared."

"I'm t-terrified," Finch said weakly. "I told myself I would never love anyone again, and that was the only thing that got me through. And now that's gone. It's gone."

"It was gone the moment you admitted it to yourself, Harold." Reese lifted Finch's face up, and set his glasses back on his face. "I know it seems like saying the words has made it all real, but it always has been real, Finch. If you had lost me that night, your denial wouldn't have spared you one bit of the pain. All it would have done, would be to leave you with regret. And trust me, regret is the worst thing a person can be left behind with, it's cruel and pointless. You deserve better than that, Finch. I'm sorry I've been so forceful, but that brush with death made me realize that I couldn't leave you with that."

Reese leaned his face down close to Finch's. "I care about you too much to leave you like that."

Finch's eyes widened behind his tear-clouded glasses. John brought his lips to his, and they kissed; this time, it was a genuine, knowing action. Finch lost his hesitance, and kissed John back unreservedly. For the first time in a long time, he let himself trust in the moment.

_Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands?  
Closed your eyes and trusted, just trusted?  
Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?  
Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, "I just don't care"?_

It's only half past the point of no return  
The tip of the iceberg  
The sun before the burn  
The thunder before the lightning  
The breath before the phrase  
Have you ever felt this way?

_Pink_

4.

Reese kept his word, and did not inquire again as to Finch's past. Finch was disappointed to find that Reese was, if not dishonest, slippery in his agreements; while he did not ask, he did not refrain from making a few disgruntled comments directed at his secretive boss. To Finch's dismay, he also began to follow him, attempting to untangle Finch's life himself.

Finch did not know how to deal with the situation, and so he did not. He enjoyed the few moments of free time he spent quietly (or not so quietly) with Reese, and he had another complication to deal with now: the son, Will Ingram, of his former professional partner, Nathan Ingram, had appeared and was looking in his father's history. Finch felt spread too thin by emotions and actions, and he nearly confessed all to Reese, if only to have his help and advice. Without quite knowing why, he refrained.

The complications only kept coming. Finch found his computers compromised by a hacker that called herself "Root". For a time, Finch isolated himself entirely, even from Reese. He was intrigued, yet frightened, by having been found. Once again, those doubts about what he was doing surfaced. Reese would never know it, but Finch came very close to letting go of the whole thing after the attack.

Finch returned and called Reese in to work, eventually. Reese gave him a number of quizzical looks, but Finch was his business-as-usual self; he never let their intimacy affect the days when they were working together. The number came and went, Reese putting whatever reservations he had aside to do his job.

When all was said and done, Finch returned to the library that was their headquarters. He had boxes with him, and intended to spend the night finishing the redo of their systems. He tottered up and down with the boxes, and went to work with a box cutter on their packaging. He was more dedicated to his purpose than ever, he realized, and much of that strength came from his faith in Reese, and Reese's loyalty to him (disgruntled or not).

"Working late?"

Finch almost fell backwards with his new hard drives in his hands at the sound of the voice. "Oh! Mr. Reese!" he exclaimed, voice wavering. He exhaled to calm his rattling nerves. "Please, if you plan to skulk around the library at all hours of the night, call me first."

Reese chuckled, coming further into the main area of the expansive room. "Did I scare you, Finch? I'm sorry."

"No, you're amused." Finch set the drives down on the table.

Reese smiled.

"Why _are _you skulking about here after hours?"

"Are you trying to imply that you don't trust me to be here on my own?"

Finch glanced at him, said nothing. Reese stood over the main desk where Finch had sat to open up the drives.

"I had a feeling you would be burning the midnight oil, and I followed you," Reese said. "We haven't been spending much quality time together since Root bruised your ego."

"That's been happening a lot lately, it seems."

Reese smirked, tousled Finch's short hair. "It's the price of putting yourself on a pedestal, Harold; everyone is going to want to knock you down."

Finch looked at him. "Is that what _you_ want, Mr. Reese? To knock me off my high horse?"

"No," Reese said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "I just want you to squirm in your saddle a little bit. Squirming is good, keeps you human."

Finch was not amused. Reese leaned down and kissed him. Finch frowned when he drew away, looking down at the drives, his ears turning pink. "I have to cannibalize all these drives and reconfigure the machines, Mr. Reese." He adjusted his glasses. "It's going to take the whole"

Reese had swung himself off the desk, moved behind Finch's chair. He put his hands on Finch's shoulders, began to massage him. Finch's face deepened in its flush.

-the whole night," he continued. "I'm going to be working on this the whole night, Mr. Reese. I don't know when I'll have another opportunity to Reese kissed his neck.-another opportunity to"

Reese bent down and kissed him fully. Finch's professionalism was done away with, for the first time since Root's attack. The trust issues, however, remained.

"I know you're following me."

Reese held Finch before him. He looked down at the man for a time, debating what to say. Finally, "I knew you would find out. So, what contingency do you plan to resort to?"

"What?"

"Disappear me, kill me?" Reese asked. "Use a memory-erasing chemical compound to make me forget all this?"

Finch laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, John, this isn't science fiction."

"I don't know, Finch." Reese sat on the desk, holding Finch before him by the waist. "The Machine could be the first step to a dystopian tomorrow."

"Anyway, I'm not resorting to anything," Finch told him. "You can look all you want, but you aren't going to find anything."

"Not unless you want me to, is that it?" Reese said. "My question is, why _don't_ you want me to? Don't you trust me, Finch? By now?"

"It isn't about trusting you."

"Isn't it?" Reese sighed. "Never mind." He gave Finch's bottom a pat. "If you don't care that I'm looking, then I don't care that you know I'm looking. Let's just leave it at that."

Finch looked suspicious. "That's oddly lenient of you."

"Would you prefer I punish you?"

"N-no, Mr. Reese, that's all right."

Reese stood, holding Finch close by the arms. "You'll want to trust me one day," he said. "I believe that. Until then, I can wait … unless I uncover your secrets on my own first, of course."

He removed Finch's jacket, and was undoing his tie.

"I just wish you would answer one question."

"What?"

"Why _do_ you keep calling me 'Mr. Reese'?"

Finch grinned. "Because I assume you like it. Do you?"

"I do, as a matter of fact." Reese lifted Finch up and sat him on the desk. "It's one of the reasons I'm so attracted to you."

Finch laughed, almost a giggle. Reese kissed him, his hands still working at his clothing. He leaned Finch back on the desk, and they proceeded to burn the midnight oil in their own fashion.

5.

Finch was groaning, his head rested in both hands. He wished the Machine had not given him a number, spared him a single day to recover from his big night in the field, but danger never ceased. He poured himself a glass of water, and threw two Alka-Seltzer tabs into it. Even the hissing sound of its fizz aggravated his headache.

"Hangover?"

Finch did not even look up at Reese. "Yes."

"You deserve it."

Finch raised his head slowly. "Why would you tell me that?

"Because it's true." John leaned over the desk to give his boss a quick kiss. "Stepping out on me? If you hadn't gotten what you deserved from Mary, I would have spanked you for it."

Finch blushed. "I wasn't … stepping out." He read Reese's look, and quickly added, "It isn't as if we were married. We only have a … a … well, I don't even know what we have, but it isn't—I mean, it is serious, but it isn't … exclusive, is it?"

"Keep talking, Finch," smirked Reese, standing. "You might earn that spanking after all."

"You have a diseased mind, John."

"What can I say? You inspire creativity, Harold."

"Creativity!" Finch exclaimed, printing some things and bringing them to stick on the glass mission board. "You treat me like a child."

"Emotionally, you are a child."

"How would you know?" Finch smirked slightly. "You don't know anything about me, as you say so often."

Reese came over to him, standing close behind him. "Are you bragging?"

Finch wisely said nothing.

"You _are_ emotionally immature." Reese turned Finch around to face him. "I don't have to know your life story to know that. I hate to tell you this, Harold, but it's pretty obvious."

"I've never been good with people, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "I suppose you have a point about my emotional immaturity, but I still don't see what that has to do with spanking me."

"Are you still angry over that?" Reese asked in amusement. "It was only the one time, and it worked, didn't it, Harold? You never would have admitted how you feel if I hadn't taken you over, and what does that say about you?"

"Not anything good, I'm sure." Finch looked up at him with a rather exasperated look. "Can we get to work now, please?"

Reese pinched his bottom. "Now we can."

* * *

The mission turned out to be one of the more easily handled ones, and Reese was back at the library by evening. Finch had dinner served with a candle on a table he had cleared of its usual electronic contents. Reese stopped short.

"What's all this?"

Finch smiled anxiously. "I just thought … since we haven't had much time to ourselves, that perhaps His confidence was quickly fading. "I mean, if you want to just get home, I understand, but I was hungry, and I thought"

"Relax, Harold," Reese said gently, coming to the table. He smiled, leaning down to give Finch a quick kiss. "It's great."

Finch smiled, unable to hide his happiness at getting Reese's approval. Reese felt a little sorry for him: he was like an eager puppy at times.

"I'm glad we have a chance to talk, actually," Reese said. "Your hangover is over, I take it?"

"Yes, finally."

"I want to apologize to you," Reese said. "You were almost killed by that lunatic woman, and it wasn't your fault, Harold. It was mine."

"Not that I don't mind being able to escape the blame, John, but how was it your fault?"

"I keep letting you go into the field," John said. "I am grateful for the help, Finch, but you don't belong on the field. I'm used to working with a partner or a team, but that's no excuse for trying to make you into that. I have Carter and Fusco now. I take full responsibility for what happened, and I promise you, I won't ever put you in that position again."

"But I want to help you, Mr. Reese," Finch said in dismay. "I go into the field when you need me. It's my choice."

"I'm the agent, soldier, in this, not you," Reese told him, gently but firmly. "The tactical decisions have to be _**mine**_. Using you, practically an intelligence and tech support agent, on the field has been my choice, and it has been a wrong one. I need you to stay out of the field as much as possible, Finch. It's too dangerous for both of us to have you compromised the way you were last night."

"Because I was drugged with ecstasy by an insane woman, I'm not tough enough to help out occasionally?" Finch stared at his plate, carving his steak. "You really do think I'm a child, don't you?"

"No, I think that you're too valuable to lose," Reese said. "Finch, there's a reason command centers are underground, and a reason the command and intelligence, the technical support, and the politicians stay in them. You are the only one with the link to the Machine. Since I can't convince you to just trust me with the specifics, you are the only one in the world that can run this thing. If something happens to me"

"Don't say that, Mr. Reese."

"If it does, I want you to continue the work."

"I'm not sure if I _could_ do this without you," Finch admitted. "I'm not sure I would want to."

"You would want to, or need to," Reese told him. "And you _could_ do it, Finch. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

"But not strong enough to be on the field."

"It has nothing to do with strength," Reese said. "It's all just tactical. Don't be offended … and don't sulk, Harold. It's childish."

Finch gave him a look, but he was not upset; he liked their banter, even if Reese did tease him every chance he got. Reese was a hard man, and Finch knew he could never reach out with sappy, sentimental overtures; this banter was as affectionate as it would ever be with him.

Reese surprised Finch then by being serious. "Do you know how you felt that night, when I was shot?"

"I couldn't forget it if I tried—and I have tried, Mr. Reese."

"I've been a soldier most of my entire life," John said quietly. "I can fake a smile more easily than I can smile and mean it. When I'm not on a mission, I may not be awkward like you, but I can come across as … aloof, I suppose. I don't express my emotions, Harold. In a way, I can be more guarded than you."

Finch set his utensils down, listening intently. He marveled that even during this confession, Reese was calm, still eating neatly, his voice even. Aloof? The man walked a fine line between being matter-of-fact and being downright cold. Finch knew that the warmth was there beneath the surface by now, though, and he was touched by the words.

"So, I may not have expressed it yesterday, but I was as scared of losing you as you were of losing me that night," John said. "Directly in the mission, I have no time to feel anything, I have to focus, but inside, deep down beneath the layers of soldier and spy, I was stricken by how much the thought of losing you affected me."

"John, I … I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," John said softly. "I just want you to know that I am not restricting your field involvement to mock you, or to put you in place, or because I think you're a child. It is a professional priority to keep you safe because you are the only one that can access the Machine. It's a personal priority to keep you safe, because I care about you. You've given me a purpose, and you've also become my life, Finch."

Finch felt his eyes water, and he bowed his head. Reese reached across the table, put a hand over Finch's.

"I know you have serious trust issues," Reese said, "but please trust me on this."

"So, what are you saying, John?" Finch asked. "Stay out of the field or else?"

"Yes, I am," John affirmed. "Stay off the field unless I give you permission, _or else_."

"I'll—I'll try to respect that, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "Remind me, who is working for whom, again?"

Reese just grinned. He leaned across the table and kissed Finch. Then, he went back to his dinner. Finch smiled, though he was a little dismayed. He could not help admire how effortlessly Reese took command, of situations and of people, even when he was the one being taken command of. He never would have imagined he would let the man take so much control of the whole operation, but he had never found a way to stop him. He did not even want to stop him, to be honest, not when John was so good at it, and when he was so handsome in his naturally dominant state.

_I wonder if that's the reason I'm holding onto the Machine so tightly? _Finch wondered. _Am I being spiteful? Do I **need** to have something kept all to myself, one last little piece of control? _

_Maybe Mr. Reese is right—I can be childish._

6.

John Reese's exploration of his new apartment was cut short by a knock on the door. He opened it, knowing only one person in the world would be there. Surely enough, Harold Finch came in with his surprisingly fast gait. John shut the door, locked it. Neither said a word for a few moments.

"So, do you like it?" Finch asked with a nervous smile.

John crossed his arms. "Why knock, Finch? You must have a spare key."

"I-I do." Finch swallowed. "But I don't want to impose. I don't own you, Mr. Reese. I know that."

"Do you, Harold?" John asked. His light eyes were cold and stormy. "Because you don't seem to have very much respect for me."

"Are you still angry?" Finch asked fretfully.

"Oh, I'm all kinds of angry with you, Harold," John told him, approaching. "After all this time, after all we've been through, to think you still don't trust me … I told you, I am a hard man, but I'm _**not**_ infallible, Finch!"

Finch jumped, going pale. Reese had not raised his voice to that level with him before. The yell made him want to run, hide, and perhaps cry. He stepped back.

"It isn't a matter of tactics or danger anymore!" John shouted down at Finch. "I don't care what your issues are, you have to grow up and trust me, damn it!"

Very meekly, Finch said, "I do, Mr. Reese."

"No, you don't." John had to take a moment to control his instinct to go easy on poor Finch; the man was nearly trembling. "You can't say the words and make them true. You have to stop doing things like keeping entire missions from me because you don't think I can handle them!"

"I was trying to protect you, John!" Finch said hoarsely. "That's all I was trying to do."

John sighed. "I know. I know." He came forward and took Finch by the arm. "That's why I'm going to go easy on you."

"What are you going to do?"

John was pulling him to the bed. "I did tell you to stay off the field without my permission, or else, didn't I?"

"Technically, you weren't on the field or on mission," Finch said, though he knew what was coming was inevitable. "Technically, I was only exploring information. I did not disobey you."

"Oh no, you aren't going to get out of this, Harold." John turned Finch to himself, removing his tie and coat, then his suit jacket. He set everything neatly on a chair. Finch did not move to escape. "This is still going to be your 'or else', and you deserve it."

Finch did not humiliate himself by protesting further. John undid his belt and slid it off. He held it in a hand for a moment, as Finch's heart sank in fear he would use it on him, but with a little smirk, John put it with the other clothes. He let Finch remove his shoes and pants on his own. Finch felt his face burning as he undressed beneath John's cool gaze, his stomach tickling with butterflies.

John sat down, patted his lap. Drawing a deep breath, Finch awkwardly climbed over the man's knees. John handled him into place, his touch clinically brisk. He allowed Finch to keep his boxers on, for the moment, spanking him through the thin layer of fabric.

Finch removed his glasses, reached over to set them on the chair with his clothing. He was not planning on crying, but he knew he might; he could feel John's anger in his crisp, hard blows, and it hurt more than the physical sting.

Finch clasped John's leg, trying to elicit a reaction from him. John was not scolding him, not saying a word, he only spanked his boss with a fast series of smacks. Finch hated the silence; he felt isolated in his punishment, and that made it more real, somehow.

Reese stopped to pull Finch's boxers down. The man's buttocks were already quite red, but he intended to deepen that by a few shades, at least. He held his hand back and then gave the man's bottom a cracking slap. Finch jumped, his hands clutching John's legs more tightly.

"I am sorry, Mr. Reese," he said, desperate to break the silence.

"This stings, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Does (_smack) _it (_smack) _sting?"

"What do you think, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked. He got a particularly hard whack for his lack of answer. Abashed, he replied more honestly, "Yes."

"Well, you may think I'm infallible, but I'm not," John informed him. "Every time you mistrust me, it hurts. It hurts me more than you know, Finch. "

"You're saying _I _hurt _you_?"

"A lot more than I'm hurting you right now," John said. "Do you think it was easy for me to trust you when we met, almost a year ago? To put my life in the hands of some private sector would-be hero, after I had been burned by my own government? It took a lot, Finch."

"You never said."

"I don't explain my feelings much," John admitted. "And you never ask."

"I … I didn't know, John."

"I put my life in your hands, and I put it in your hands every day for your—our—cause," John continued. The gentleness of his voice was in sharp contrast to the harshness of his spanks. "I trust you, even with all the secrets you keep from me, and that won't change, Finch. You say you trust me, you sleep with me, for God's sake, and then you turn around and take choices like this out of my hands? You treat me like a rogue agent? How many times do I have to prove myself to you before you finally realize I'm not going to ruin this thing? How many times do I have to do the right thing before you see that I have changed?"

"I didn't meant it as an insult, John."

"But it was, Harold. No matter what your intentions, they have consequences," John said. "They send a message, a very clear one. You have to think about that, Harold."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." Reese shifted Finch on his lap, raising his buttocks a touch higher. "But I can't let it be as easy as that, can I?"

"No." Finch sighed. "I suppose you wouldn't be you if you—ah, ow! If you could."

"You've never cried out before, Harold. Does it hurt that much?"

"Please don't tease me right now, Mr. Reese."

Reese chuckled, but left him alone; he figured Harold Finch had enough humility in that moment to last a lifetime. He did feel sorry for Finch, but he refused to go easy on him. He did what he did on missions: detached himself from the necessary action. With the sympathy put aside, however, he found himself sadistically humored.

Finch was brightly flushed, and a little teary-eyed, when Reese finally let him up. He pulled his boxers back up, sheepishly wiping his eyes. Reese gave him a sympathetic smile, helping him wipe his face off.

"There, there, Harold." John pulled the man into his arms. "Come here."

"You don't have to," Finch said, though he let himself be pulled onto the bed, into the man's arms. "I know you're furious with me."

"It's over," John told him. He moved back on the bed until he was sitting up against the headboard, Finch rested on his chest. He stroked the man's shoulder comfortingly. "You've been punished, you apologized, it's done. I hope you don't mistrust me like this again, that's all. For your sake as well as mine."

"I won't." Finch buried his face in John's shirt. "I wish you had told me sooner, John. I didn't know I was hurting you. I didn't think I _could_ hurt you."

"It's called 'taking me for granted'."

Finch looked up at him. "I'm sorry."

John finished wiping the rest of the teas from the corners of Finch's large blue eyes. "I know." He kissed him tenderly. "I know. It's okay, Finch. We all make mistakes."

"You don't. Not anymore, at least."

"I've made too many mistakes," Reese said. "Then, now … I'm always making mistakes, Finch. I'm only human."

Finch hesitated, then asked, "Is this one of them? Being with me, I mean?"

"No," John said certainly. "Working for you may turn out to be a huge mistake, ultimately, but loving you isn't."

"What did you just say?"

John watched him. "You didn't know it by now?"

"You've never said it."

"Well, I'm saying it." John sat up from his slump. He held Finch by the shoulders, met his eyes directly. "I love you, Harold Finch."

"Even though I haven't told you anything about my past?" Harold asked incredulously. "Even though you don't even really know me?"

"I know enough about you to know I love you," John said. "Whatever man you were, I love the man you are now. Even with all your secrets and trust issues."

Finch was tracing the contours of John's face with his hand. "I wish I deserved that," he said quietly. "I wish I was a better man for you."

"You need to trust the man you are. I do." Reese soothingly ran a hand over Finch's sore buttocks. "Even with all your secrets and your mistrust, God help me … I do trust you."

"I appreciate that more than you'll ever know, John. Thank you, and … and I'm sorry."

John kissed him, and Finch settled against him again. The day was warm, one of the first warm days of the season, and the breeze blowing in from the windows was pleasant. John had not slept much the past days, and he dozed lightly. Finch was still smarting from his punishment, and was glad to simply relax in his partner's company. As he lay in his arms, he soaked in every little touch, the feel of his body so close, and the sound of his heart beating. Reese had been so angry with him that he had been uncertain whether he would ever get a moment like this again. It was more than worth a little pain to be here.

But how much would it hurt when these moments were gone? Finch knew better than anyone that nothing ever lasted, and that no matter how special this felt, it was as finite as anything else in life. He had sworn to never put himself in the position of being destroyed by loss again, but here he was.

There was no doubt that it would destroy him. Only this new purpose of his had kept him going a year ago, and barely, at that. One more loss like that, and he knew he would crumble completely. He already lived the barest idea of a life, with his unexpected affair with Reese being his only real relationship. Losing that last tether to life … he knew it would leave him dead inside.

_But it is worth it, _Finch thought with sudden certainty. He looked up at Reese, who was asleep, and smiled. _I wasn't even sure that I was capable of human emotion anymore, but Reese showed me that I am. I'm not naïve enough to have my hopes reignited, and this isn't the happy ending I once envisioned for myself, but I am, right now, content. No matter how long it lasts, it's more than I ever thought I would get out of my last chance at life. It's worthy any kind of pain, any kind of price. _

_I would do anything to keep this. I would give anything to be worthy of it, of **him**. _

_If this ends by the dangers we face every day, then I hope I'm the one that pays the price. Whether we're together or not, the only thing that can make me regret this would be losing him—**really** losing him._

_Out of everything I've ever done, that would be the one thing I could never forgive myself for._

Epilogue

John Reese stared into the empty library blankly. There were no words or expressions strong enough to convey the deep, foreboding misery that had fastened its talons directly in his heart. In the past days, he had even gazed emptily at the bottles of liquor that had once been his comfort; if he knew they would be enough to ease his pain this time, he would have gladly thrown himself into them, but no liquor could help him this time. It was not that the pain was more profound, per say, but it was not less profound, either.

The shock of it was almost worst than the pain. John had never planned to have a shred of hope again, but somewhere along the line in his work with Finch, he had rediscovered his intentions: helping people, giving himself to a cause greater than any he could shoulder on his own. Not only had he had hope that he could fulfill the purpose he had held since youth, but he had hoped for something more, as well. He had hope that he could still feel … human.

Then, Root snatched it all away. After John had invested in her case, as if she were the vulnerable beautiful lady she had appeared, she had torn Finch away right under John's protective gaze. Finch was gone. The access to the Machine was gone along with him, but John couldn't have given a damn: all he wanted was his strange little boss back.

New York felt empty and isolated, even with its streaming crowds of people. All of its energy flowed around John, like the surreal dream of a drug addict, and he could not connect with a single piece of it. He spent every waking moment, every bit of energy, searching for Finch, to no avail. No resource or risk could bring Finch back. He was lost.

Standing like a stone beneath the waves of the river one day, John stopped amidst the ever-passing crowds of the city. He saw the eye of the Machine, innocuously described as a traffic camera to the unaware, blinking its red light down at him. It felt like the blinking of an eye, and all of a sudden, John was aware of something beyond its software and hardware-based intelligence. It felt like it was truly, _truly_ watching him.

"He's in danger because he worked for you," John softly told the camera only he was looking into, only he noticed. "And you're going to help me find him."

Whatever he expected or wanted from the data-aggregating thing, from that too-coherent juxtaposition of human and computer reason, John felt that there was hope. There _**had to be**_ hope.

If there was not hope amidst all this human progress of technology …. then the world was definitively lost.

_ END _


End file.
